


Penises Don't Solve Crimes, John

by domxho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, schtupping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domxho/pseuds/domxho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't touch when they have a case, until they do.</p>
<p>Or: John is needy and I abuse parentheses and italics for the sake of porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penises Don't Solve Crimes, John

They don't touch when they have a case.

It was Sherlock's ruling, three seconds after John first kissed him.

(Because it was John, after Sherlock said _of course I need you, John_ which John read as _you are my soulmate never leave me_ and, clearly, had to stand on his tiptoes and kiss the detective softly.)

(He wouldn't have done it if Sherlock hadn't kissed him on the cheek the day before, while John was sitting in his chair, right before the detective bid him good night.)

(John had wet dreams that night. The good kind.)

John had agreed, even understood Sherlock's reasoning – _we can't get distracted on a case, John_ – in Sherlock's world, that meant his focus; in John's more romantic world, that meant not to schtup when people were dying.

But John had been in relationships before, not that he would call what he and Sherlock shared a _relationship_. (He obviously wanted that, but he feared Sherlock's reaction if he used that word.) And John's favorite part about relationships, obviously, was the touching. 

Given that John had shared a flat for several months with a man he was more than a little infatuated with, and he had finally been given the go-ahead to do all the things his love-soaked brain wanted him to do (kiss him, lick that neck of his, God, unbutton that violet shirt until you can see his collarbone), it was painful, both emotionally and physically, for John to have to retract his hand (and sometimes mouth and tongue) during cases.

Basically, it hurt that John was _not allowed_ to touch Sherlock when Sherlock was Thinking.

He hated pushing Sherlock when he didn't have to, like when it was mandatory that Sherlock eat at least one little bit, today, Sherlock, you're already frail-looking and these London winds could blow you away. But with this, with Sherlock's marriage to his Work, John knew his place.

Until, of course, John couldn't take it.

\-- -- 

The case had been a strenuous one, having gone on for five days and still counting. Sherlock was getting closer, John following him everywhere and still making googly-eyes in amazement even after all this time. 

On the sixth day in a row, Sherlock was getting quite agitated, as he should be, and upon another breaking-and-entering adventure, both got shot at, and John felt a bullet whiz past his bad shoulder, and they escaped with no physical injuries and hailed a cab and collapsed into it.

John was breathing harshly, his heart pounding in his chest from the adrenaline, but this time it was different.

He realized that he _had_ been hurt before, and then – even scarier – Sherlock could have been hurt as well.

At any time, Sherlock could be hurt. With this job, it was bound to happen.

Without thinking, John moved closer to Sherlock and grabbed the detective's hand, which was sitting in his lap.

Sherlock, looking out the window, dropped John's hand automatically and shifted closer to the window. 

John knew from the look on his face that he was Thinking, but not thinking, but he couldn't help his feelings getting hurt.

He had just wanted to hold Sherlock's hand when he was freaking out. 

"Sherlock," he mumbled, hoping to have a conversation.

" _Thinking_ , John," he replied in a harsh, short voice, his fingers tapping on his pant leg rapidly.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you."

Sherlock sighed heavily, not even hiding his annoyance. "Here," he said to the cabbie, and the car pulled over and the men got out at Baker Street.

John followed Sherlock's brisk pace into the building, shedding his jacket and hanging it up once they entered the flat.

"What," Sherlock said in a monotone voice, quite angrily. They were standing in the middle of the sitting room. At least the door was closed.

"I really-" He couldn't let himself say he needed Sherlock, because Sherlock would just huff and call him a teenage girl. Even though it was the truth. (That he needed Sherlock, not that he was a teenage girl.)

"Spit it out, John."

John huffed in his annoyance, because that tone of Sherlock's really does get on his last nerve. Like John was the one doing wrong – which, in Sherlock's mind, he guesses he was.

"You're the brilliant deducer. You figure it out." John angrily sat down, watching as Sherlock squinted his eyes at him.

"The bullet brushed the shoulder which got shot years ago, leaving you with a slight flashback and an anxiety attack. In a moment of weakness-" John's jaw tightened at this- "you seeked comfort in holding my hand, expressly against exactly what I told you not to do." John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock held up a hand. "And now you are upset because you think I don't care."

"Quite right. And I'm right too – you don't care."

John got up, tired of Sherlock's logical and unapologetic speaking already, and started to head up to his long-forgotten room (except in fights like these) when Sherlock stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.

The touch made John gasp, because he was not expecting it, the warmth of it or what it meant, and blushed immediately at his knee-jerk reaction.

Sherlock stepped in, clearly still Thinking a bit, and closed in on John.

John swallowed drily.

"Penises don't solve crimes, John," Sherlock said lowly, his voice a little shaky but only John would have been able to notice it.

"What?" Because, what?

Sherlock gave him The Look, which John rolled his eyes at, which gave Sherlock the information that he was making The Look.

He sighed.

"Do you not know the reason I requested we don't touch during cases?"

John shook his head.

Sherlock stepped back a millimeter, but was still close enough to John to make John's breath quicken.

"Your touch is the most intense distraction I have ever encountered, and I am including heroin in this." John's eyebrows raised, because he was not expecting that, but Sherlock continued. "My brain, the most powerful tool I have – and I could make the argument for _in the entire world_ , but I will save you that – when you touch me, my beloved brain travels immediately to my dick, and one cannot solve cases with one's dick. If one could, Lestrade would not need me." He smirked at his own joke, then his face got serious again. "One touch-" Sherlock cups John's face- "and all thoughts except you exit my brain, as it travels, as aforementioned, to my dick-" Sherlock locked his hips with John's then, making John whimper a little- "and I cannot think, and it is the most annoying thing."

Sherlock was clearly done, because he was looking at John expectantly. 

John could only manage to giggle, despite all his hormones and his brain-dick wanting to fuck Sherlock open right here over that chair. He giggled, even as Sherlock frowned and moved away, and, still cackling, pulled Sherlock back by the hips.

"You're mad," Sherlock mumbled just before John (still chuckling, although better now) leaned in and took Sherlock's full lips with his own.

The detective properly melted, opening his lips immediately and running his hand to the back of John's neck.

John managed to awkwardly sit against the chair, and he spread his legs, breath coming in quicker as Sherlock stood between them and pressed against him.

"Six days is too long," John rasped as Sherlock moved down to his neck.

"Thirteen days." Sherlock licked a stripe up John's neck, to his ear. "Back to back cases, remember?"

Such ordinary words, John thought amusingly at himself, and even as such still made him swoon. It was the voice.

"I don't want to- oh-" Sherlock rocked his hips into John's- "push you into something you're not comfortable with."

Sherlock damn near _growled_ , right against John's ear, and John was unable to stop his hands from falling to that perfect arse and pulling the detective in closer.

"I already touched you," Sherlock mumbled in a low register, making John's skin crawl. "Now I have to have you."

_Have me_ , John's brain helpfully suggested, but his body said enough by the way his head was thrown back and his hips were rutting perfectly against Sherlock's. 

Sherlock moaned and kissed John again, one hand dropping to quickly unbutton John's trousers and reach in to grab his dick. 

John fell to pieces then, became a whimpering mess in Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock knew exactly what to say to make John cum immediately.

"I've got you, John. You're _mine_."

John cried out and came, barely aware that Sherlock had flipped him around so he was bent over the chair and pulled his pants and briefs down. He hmmed in lazy curiosity as he heard Sherlock's breath hitch, pants being unbuttoned, and then a hard something against his arse.

"Sherlock, I-"

Sherlock just rutted animalistically, leaving a pool of heat sit in John's stomach at being taken like this – not even _taken_ fully, but he could feel possession fall over him, and in that orgasm-soaked part of his brain, he thought lamely that the cloak of possession could protect him from anything.

Within a minute, Sherlock came onto John's lower back, biting his bad shoulder – not hard, but just enough so that John knew he was there, that it was _Sherlock_ and not a bullet.

They lazily slumped against the chair for a few minutes before Sherlock's phone buzzed.

"Care to get that?" he mumbled against John's neck, kissing it lightly.

John hummed happily and reached into Sherlock's coat pocket – that he was still wearing, oddly – and read a text from Lestrade.

"New murder. Ready?" John felt a little sad to be interrupted in his afterglow, but he knew that Sherlock would want to go. 

Sherlock yawned, making John's heart swell, and he pulled himself off and tucked himself back into his trousers. "Yeah, let's go."

John lazily put his pants back on, just so he wouldn't waddle on his way to change pants.

Minutes later, John returned feeling refreshed and found Sherlock grinning and texting. 

"Ready?"

"No need," Sherlock said, his fingers flying on his phone. "It was the ducks. Remember the ducks, John? Of course, I can't believe it didn't hit me then – you were- oh, never mind," he mumbled, his fingers flying. He frowned at his phone after it buzzed.

"What?"

"Lestrade says we have to go anyway. I solved it for him and he still wants me there," Sherlock grumbled angrily, heading out the door.

"You solved the case?"

"It hit me just after the orgasm did," Sherlock said without turning around. "The _ducks_ , John."

John rolled his eyes and followed his partner out the door.

\-- -- 

With the case drawn to a close, the boys returned to a cab on their way back to the flat.

"I'm sorry I attacked you," John said quietly.

Sherlock didn't even manage a glance at John when he said, "it was a necessary experiment."

"And the results?"

Sherlock tilted his head and paused, something he never did. John was afraid of what he would say until the words came out. "Touching is still prohibited while on a case. But I fear we need a few exceptions to this rule: One, if one of us is upset and needs physical comfort; and two, if my thoughts get jammed up like they apparently were, you need to notice and – don't take this the wrong way – have your dirty way with me until I see things clearly again." He paused again, like he was gathering the words together. "Your arse, much like my brilliant mind, can apparently solve crimes. Not as well as I can, _obviously_ , but there is an important part of the process mmph-"

John jumped him then, ignoring the cabbie's presence, and stuck his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, savoring the taste of surprise. 

John kissed Sherlock until the detective was moaning and grasping his fingers in the doctor's coat, and finally pulled back.

"John," Sherlock managed, and John had never been so pleased for a cabbie to yell that he had arrived at his destination as he was right then.


End file.
